


the end of infinity (for you);

by courageofthestars



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, F/M, One Sided Love, aka reader - Freeform, angsty shit, javiers in love with his best friend, lowkey a love triangle, no one asked for this but here it is, six-thousand words of madness, so a love square maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 09:27:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17557754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courageofthestars/pseuds/courageofthestars
Summary: Reader has been running with Abigail Roberts since they were young. They found Dutch together, they've lived with and for each other for years. People in the gang say that Reader has feelings for Abigail that Reader hasn't realized, but Reader insists that their relationship is solely platonic, Reader only wants to keep Abigail--Readers best friend safe. When Jack is kidnapped by the Braithwates, Reader freaks, and realizes that maybe those feelings aren't solely platonic after all.





	the end of infinity (for you);

“I’ll kill them all!” You shouted, ripping the gun from one of the many, many bodies that surrounded Braithwate manor. They had Jack somewhere. Sweet, innocent little Jack. Jack, who could do no harm. Jack, who was easily your world even though you held no relation to the boy. You were just Aunt Y/N, a friend of his father's and his mother’s best friend; and that was why you were fighting so hard to save him. You’d known Abigail since the two of you were teenagers, everywhere you went, your best friend followed and vice versa. You were closer than two peas in a pod, you were practically sisters.

 _“I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him, Y/N”_ Your best friends words echoed in your ear as you marched to Johns side, passing him the new rifle. His other had gotten jammed due to some bullet malfunction. You didn’t know or concern yourself with the specifics, you were never real sweet on guns. John Marston, though? Well, you couldn’t really put your feelings for Marston into many words when you thought about it. And you tried not to. He was your best friends lover for God's sake, you didn’t have a chance when you were twenty and you definitely didn’t have a chance now. Not that you really wanted one, anyway. Once upon a time maybe. Now, all you cared about was that family, really. Dutch always preached about loyalty and faith, but you didn’t doubt for a second that if Abigail, or God forbid Jack, were ever harmed that you would convince John to help them flee.

The act would get you killed, if you ever did proceed with it. Dutch was a kind soul when he wanted to be, he had such a gentle way with words that made you want to throw all your trust and blind loyalty into him like a child. But you were no child. No, you were Y/N Y/L/N and you would never be blindly loyal. Dutch had earned your loyalty and steadily your trust, whereas Abigail had been desperate to get off the streets. You were good to her, she was your best friend and you had been protecting her with your life. You would have been completely and utterly content to do nothing but that for the rest of your life. Protecting that woman had become all you knew, until John came along at least. John, with his sweet-talking and his instant charm on Abigail. John, sitting with you by the fire at night promising you that were safe, and that you didn’t need to fight no more. _John-fucking-Marston._

You didn’t know you were stopped until Javier pulled on your forearm, yelling something you couldn’t quite hear over the gunfire and Hosea’s yelling. You felt awful, but you just stood for a moment and blinked at him before he leant in closer. “ _¿Vaya a ir, eh? ¡Ningún tiempo para estar de pie alrededor de mirar bastante, chica!_ ” He yelled again, once more tugging on your arm, though with a little more force than before. Your mind completely blanked, you could remember the man trying to teach you Spanish before specifically for moments like these, and now your mind was blanker than a drunken harlot’s. Instead of trying to decipher his words you rapidly nodded, and he clapped you on the shoulder before turning back to Bill and jogging back to the gate. You quickly realized that Dutch, Arthur, Hosea and John had began the raid on the manor, and with your best friend in mind you ran in.

You managed to run right into the devil himself, the force of hitting his back hard enough to send you reeling back a couple of steps but not nearly enough to have you falling on the marble floor. John turned his head slightly, looking at you over his shoulder with something you couldn’t quite comprehend before he was jerking his head to the upstairs. You didn’t even need to speak to know what he wanted, and you gave him a hard look as you pulled the lever on your rifle. With the sound of a round readying itself in the chamber, you flew up the stairs like a bat-out-of-hell, John right behind you with his back to yours. The two of you had a certain dynamic in fights like these, well, in fights at all. Abigail made it obvious to both of you that she couldn’t live without the other, so you were constantly watching Johns back, and John always had yours.

The sight of a Braithwate boy, barely older than twenty-two, fleeing a room with a yell almost made you sympathize with the family you were currently onslaughting. Before a spray of red ended his screams and Arthur stepped out of the room, at least. And then you were pulled from your unruly thoughts. These bastards, the inbred cow-shit of human beings had taken Jack. If you didn’t know any better, you would say your Jack. John was no father to the boy, everyone knew it. You, however? You did everything you could for the boy, you would pick through the ashes of the world if it meant to find some place the kid could be happy. It seemed to be the certain enthusiasm that John lacked. Javier called you bitter whenever you brought the topic up when the two of you were fishing, even had the nerve to say that you were jealous that he got such a major part in the boys life and you didn’t.

Javier got to go swimming that day.

You loved Abigail, it was true. But she was practically your sister, and that was all it was. You weren’t sweet on Abigail like Arthur was on Mary-Beth or how Sean used to be on Karen. Those were loves, people who would go to the ends of the Earth just for the others approval, their touch, their kiss, any of the sort. Truth be told, you didn’t particularly care for Abigail's approval. You only wanted her safe.

_You would burn the world to ash for her._

“Hosea and Dutch are tryin’ to break into a room now. We think they’ve gotten themselves holed up in there or somthin’.” Arthur explained to the two, beckoning them to follow him down the hall as he broke off in a breezy walk. You went ahead, few paces short of a run before you were standing in between Hosea and Dutch.

“Any way in?” You huffed, your rifle clutched tightly in your hand that hung at your side. Your chest heaved with heavy breaths, stray hairs from your braided tresses falling in front of your face being blown away by the force of your breaths. It was then you realized that you hadn’t taken a good moment to breath until you had gotten the standpoint in the courtyard. But you didn’t let your body heave with greedy breaths, instead you took gentle steady ones through your nose as Charles had taught you.

“No, they seem to have barricaded it somehow.” Hosea answered you as he and Dutch through their weight against the door. There was the loud bang of the impact along with some shuffling on the other side, but the door didn’t budge at all. You glared at the twin mahogany doors, your upper lip curled in a snarl as you brought the rifle to your eyes once more.

“Move. I’ll get it open.” You demanded, finger twitching by the trigger as you steadied an aim right between the two metal bits of the door. You were no lock pick, but you knew enough to know that the two would link there, and by severing that the doors would likely blow open. Dutch seemed okay with the idea when he watched you adjust the black bandana around your neck to cover your nose and mouth; he slipped away from the door and gave you the look. The “I trust you.” Look. Hosea almost moved as well before John's arm collided with your clavicle, pushing you back with an incredulous look. His brows were pulled slim together as he practically glared at you.

“Y/N, are you crazy? If Jack’s in there, you could shoot him!” He shouted at you, the side of his face angrily pulling at the three simple scars down his cheek.

“Well, then what d’ya suggest we do? Knock politely and ask? It’s too late for that, Marston! Far too late!” You defended in a sarcastic tone. You had all searched the entire house, and Jack was nowhere in it. This was the last possible room, he had to be in there. And you wouldn’t sleep until you had him in your arms. No. You wouldn’t sleep until Abigail had him in her arms. Getting Jack was one thing, but you wouldn’t be satisfied until she was, and she wouldn’t be satisfied until she had her son.

John sighed and looked at you, his eyes falling in a sort of frown as he clearly tried to piece something together before his hands fell at his side in defeat. You licked your lips nervously under your bandana, moving a hand to rest on his shoulder as your Y/E/C eyes stared into his. “I won’t hit him, John. I promise.” You vowed before moving your hand back to your gun. You had to take a minute to re-aim, taking a deep breath as you steadied your gun; giving Hosea and Dutch time to move away from the door. As you released the breath, you squeezed the trigger as hard as your finger could muster. The door trembled and shook, and your gun certainly hit directly where you aimed, but the lock remained in place.

You bit back a scream of frustration, the sound only making its way out as a soft whimper, which you ended up preferring the scream to. “Well?” You looked to Arthur, then Dutch. “What now?” You tried to bite back the snap in your tone as you were genuinely concerned, and despite the failed attempt Dutch gave you a sympathetic nod. He seemed to sit in thought for a few seconds before the familiar shake of gunfire came from the courtyard, along with the screaming of a particular string of Spanish curses and Bill’s very colorful reaction to them.

“Y/N, John, Arthur, go help them. When you can, find another way inside.” Dutch ordered, ring adorned fingers snapping to the nearby veranda entrance. You nodded, quickly jumping to the side when a bullet went through the mahogany wood door, indicating the inhabitants were going to fight back. Your heart lurched, and your lungs began to burn when you looked to Dutch and Hosea.

“Are you sure you don’t want help here?” You asked the older men, shifting your weight to the left side as Hosea and Dutch both dodged to their respective sides of the wall to avoid another barrage of pistol fire.

“Just go!” Hosea exclaimed, waving you away, and with an exasperated breath you followed Arthur and John out onto the veranda. Each of you filed into a different vantage point on the balcony, you were behind a pillar while John and Arthur took cover behind boxes next to you. It wasn’t the sturdiest of cover for them, but each man had a pillar a few feet away they could fall back to if need be. There wasn’t much talking as Arthur tossed you a scoped rifle in exchange for yours, he often carried very good weapons that you more than guilty of borrowing to get a step ahead in fights.

Your side burned a little as you leered to the right, lifting the gun to your eye and aligning it with a Braithwaites chest to the best of your ability before firing. The shot ended up hitting him in the stomach, but he dropped the knife he was aiming to bring down on Javier's neck either way. You took advantage of the man being off-guard, quickly loading another round and squeezing again. This shot got him in the neck, and even though it sprayed Javier with blood, the Braithwate fell to the ground and didn’t move. The chaos went on for a while longer before no one except for the Van Der Linde’s moved in the courtyard. With a small, tired sigh you pulled away from the pillar and passed Arthur back his rifle in return for the one you previously carried, following John as he began to look around for any way inside.

“Wait! Marston, gimme a hand with this!” You exclaimed when you saw another door. Your heart leaped with something you couldn’t exactly pin-point. Excitement, rage, blood-lust; a strange combination of the three even. You, Arthur and John each through your bodies into the door, yourself ignoring the pain in your side, until it fell open. You were especially quick to yank the lever of your rifle and shoot a man just inside, the bullet making short messy work of the man’s face before he fell to the floor. John gave you a nod, and you returned it as Arthur trained his gun on the remaining one alive. There were two doors aside from the main door, which after John pushed down the lazy barricade had Dutch and Hosea piling in. After seeing your bosses inside safely, you moved to the door on the far left as John moved to the one on the right. In sync, the two of you brought your knees to your chest and brought your feet into the wood of the doors like the wrath of hell; both of them swinging open. On his side, John fired his revolver; but your room looked nothing less of empty.

Until you saw her at least.

The old hag, Catherine Braithwate, was hiding. Under her bed. With her feet out. You resisted the urge to scoff at the fruitless attempt as you gripped her ankle under her night dress, yanking her out. The sound of her skin screeching against the tile suggested you had pulled her a little rough but you couldn’t care less. There was only one thing you cared about, and he was gone. You leaned down, bending your knees to let your black leather glove clad hands tangle in the mess of grey hairs on her head, ripping the woman to force to stand before pushing her out of the room, right in front of Dutch and Hosea. “Where is he?” You snarled, the barrel of your rifle barely centimeters away from being pressed against her skull.

Dutch leaned over with a grunt and grabbed her by the shoulder, showing no mercy as he roughly forced the woman to her feet and pushed her against the wall with a small grunt. “You want me to kill you, too, old woman?” He asked, though if were meant to be answered was a mystery to you. If it were up to you, the woman would still be on the ground. If it were up to you, the old hag would be dead. As a form of threat, Dutch drew his revolver. A pretty thing it was, though deadly. Long silver barrel with intricate gold engravings and an ornate pearl grip. Likely stolen, or even bought if he had managed to get the funds, which you no doubt believed.

Catherine struggled against Dutch’s grip for a few moments, passing glares to everyone in the room aside from her only son left alive. “You bastards,” She snapped, her head leaning forward before Dutch moved the revolver under her chin, pressing her head back into the wall. “We have lived in this house for a hundred-and-twenty years! We never had no problems ‘cept for Yankees.” She rambled, yourself rolling your eyes as you moved to stand by Arthur. Your hand twitched at your side but you made no move for your gun, and you wouldn’t unless you had to. Dutch and Hosea had this under control, you realized as Hosea questioned the woman again.

“You killed my sons!”

“Oh, and I will surely kill the rest of ‘em unless you start talkin’!” Dutch threatened back, snapping his free fingers. Muscle memory brought your rifle up and your hand on the lever, pulling it until the satisfying crack of a bullet loading in allowed you to put it back to its normal position. You readied the rifle on the boy at Arthur and yours’ feet with your finger resting near the trigger, one eye on the boy to make sure he didn’t dare move and the other on Dutch, waiting for an order.

No, you weren’t one to blindly give your loyalty or trust. But Dutch was a man who had seemed to earn it through the years. He had fought viciously to keep you and Abigail safe for the first few months you were with him, and he still did. You would likely put your life in the man's hands, something you could only trust to few others. Abigail and Javier being the only others. You respected him too, the man managed to keep his morals and honor through everything the gang did. There was a strict set of rules that were mostly easy to comply by, those who didn’t were. . .dealt with. A cruel but necessary system. “Gimme the word,” You murmured, halfly directed at Dutch and halfly directed to John. John. You were itching to kill the boy in front of you, you were itching to kill everyone in the goddamn family until you found Jack.

 _"Maybe that’s where you and I are different, Marston. You want to keep her. I want to keep her happy. I want to keep her safe."_ You thought to yourself as you swallowed.

You both loved Abigail, it was true. But there were lines in the world, moral lines, cruel lines. Hard no’s and soft maybes that people didn’t just go through. John, John you knew was one of those people. You? You _weren't_. You would cross every line drawn, you would spill every drop of blood and you would break every rule if it meant that Abigail was safe, that she was happy. If that meant her at the side of John Marston, so be it.

You could feel sweat dripping down your abdomen as the woman began to speak again. You had never liked her, you hated her before this even. She was the typical rich bitch you could expect from a town like this, and you never trusted her whenever she gave Hosea job; you had always made that clear. But you had trusted Hosea every time when he told you he could handle it, when he said he would send Arthur or John instead. Up until now, you had thought yourself to be simply paranoid.

You could faintly see from the corner of your eye as Dutch moved the woman away from the wall, clutching her back to his chest with one arm as he began to force her toward the exit. “Let’s get her outta here,” He muttered, but you doubted he was accepting that she wasn’t going to talk. Like you had explained before, Dutch had his ways.

“Whatta ‘bout him?” Arthur questioned the male, his head ducking down to the quivering, cowering Braithwate boy at the two of yours’ feet. Dutch dipped his head towards you in the slightest, and without a moment’s hesitation you had your index finger moving to the trigger and squeezing. You were never the best shot, that much was clear when your bullet strayed in the slightest, rather than clearing a way through the back of the boys head it had blown a nasty, fist sized hole in the side of his skull. But Catherine Braithwaites scream of pure and utter agony was satisfying all the same. The rifle kicked against your hip, a rustling, burning ache of pain ripping up your already sore side, but you only let out a quiet huff.

You weren’t a good woman, you _knew_ that, but there were more important things than that to worry about.

You marched out the door behind Dutch, dangerously close to either kicking the woman he dragged behind him or stepping on her, and you didn't care if you did either. Though she likely would, the spurs of your boots were rather nitpicky and painful. “You look pale, girlie. Ain’t got the stomach for this Yankee’s dirty work, d’ya?”

You glared at the woman and wiped the sweat from your face with your bandana, swallowing another grunt as your side throbbed once more. “I got the stomach for a lot more than you think, woman. Now shut yer trap!”

The woman groaned and yelled when Dutch suddenly dropped her, she went to stand before you trained your rifle on her and within those few seconds Dutch had her gripped again. As the four of you made your way downstairs you realized he was dragging her by her hair. A painful, perfect fate. You could hear conversation between Dutch and Arthur, something about Braithwate sons and rolled your eyes. Not at Dutch’s orders, but at the idea of the family’s existence in particular.

You all made slow but steady progress through the house, John and some of the other boys tossing lit lanterns into different rooms, sending the carpeted floors and expensive painting adorned walls into an angry blaze of red. You tossed your rifle over your shoulder, catching the leather braided strap and wrapping it around your chest so the weapon didn’t go cascading to the ground. The situation was under control, chaotic, merciless antagonistic control but control nonetheless, you doubted you would need it. But still as a cautionary measure you pulled your knife from the sheath at your hip. It was slick, and almost slipped from your hands for a moment before you pushed the heel of your hand into the handle and forced it back to the sheath.

With a grimace you assumed the liquid to be sweat, and wiped it on your pants leg, pulling the hand back up to your face to adjust your bandana your heart dropped. Your hand was stained crimson, dry for the most part due to you wiping the wet on your pants. Nervously, your hand slowly pat its way up your side, following the sticky, slick trail and applying the slightest pressure until you felt a scream worthy burn. Found it. Your slim fingers carefully prodded around the area through your shirt as you walked, mapping out a small but definitely there bullet hole. “Shit,” You whispered to yourself, wiping your hand rapidly back on your pants as John approached you.

“You alright, Y/N?” He asked, cautiously eyeing you up and down.

“Never better, Marston,” You assured with a forced smile, you had never been more grateful for all black outfits than you were right now. John gave you a smile that you could feel a bit of suspicion in but moved up nonetheless, leaving you in the back to once again draw your knife. You wiped the blade on your pant leg and then the handle on your other one, cleaning off any trace of the bloody residue before tightening a grip on it and approaching the wall.

A painting of Catherine and some of her sons was hung on it, almost as tall as you and on a smooth, barely raised canvas. You raised yourself to your tip-toes, blade in hand before bringing into the canvas with all the force you could muster, then you tugged your arm back down and closed your eyes to listen to the pleasing rips and cracks of the canvas being shredded. When the blade hit the frame you exhaled with a smile, and jogged out of the burning building to catch up with the rest of your family.

When you got outside you kept going until you found a spot between Javier and John, watching Dutch toss the woman to the ground with a thud and an upheave of dust. Your hand carefully cradled your bloodied side, being sure not to turn too much so as not to shine light on your red hand. But by now you were also becoming extremely aware of the wound, the burning steadily getting worse and knew it was likely because your adrenaline was wearing off. That and you had made yourself explicitly aware of the wound by touching it. A decision you now regretted immensely, as the area where you had carefully prodded the hole felt like someone was digging a rusty nail through the skin and carving the Devil’s initials. In an effort to subdue the pain, you shifted your weight to the other side.

“Why’d you steal the boy, Mrs. Braithwate!?” Hosea yelled to the woman on the ground, looming over her.

“You stole my liquor-”

“Boys are off limits-”

“You stole my horses! Ain’t no rules in war, Mr. Matthews,”

Your blood began to boil, taking a threatening step forward and reaching for your knife once more before Javier rest a hand on your shoulder. His look enough made you stop, a simple hard stare that said, “Not now,” So you held your ground, and his grip fell. But that didn’t change your attitude, how dare she compare Jacks value to that of booze or a godforsaken beast? Jack was worth twelve of her horses, more than that even. You couldn’t put a price on the boys value.

Hosea took another step forward, pointing an accusatory finger toward the woman as he once again threw the question, demanding for Jacks location. Your fury began to eat away until it was genuine fear for the boys safety. Complete and utter terror with the possibility that Jack could be unsafe or even harmed. Abigail would be destroyed if anything happened to the boy, and then she would likely kill everyone who tried to stop her from avenging the pure soul. You refused to let the woman result to that. You refused to let your best friend lose her son. And a selfish part of you refused to let you lose Abigail.

Catherine glared up at the group again, clearly gathering what was left of her pride as she moved to her back side, sitting with her weight resting against her forearms. She gave Dutch a look of pure spite and disgust. “My boys sold him to Angelo Bronte. So, my guess is Saint Denis! Either there. . .or on the boat to Italy!”

You froze, if you weren’t already pale you would have been now, and your cheeks took on a sickly green tone. "Italy! How the hell am I supposed to get him back from Italy?" Your thoughts screamed.

“Aye, you alright there, Y/N?” Javier asked, standing next to you and letting a hand gently rest on your upper back as he tipped his head down to look at your face. You nodded despite the burning in your side and the bile rising in your throat you pulled your hand from your side and waved the man away.

“S’fine. . .” You wearily muttered, fingers shaking in the fire light. “I’m just. . .just tired, s’all. Long night. . .I’m. . .fine.”

Javier nodded with a laugh of his own, saying something about you having him worried before departing to his horse; leaving you to glare at Catherine Braithwate. She was crawling toward the burning remains of her home, sobbing screams as she went. The sound rang in your ears, scratching your eardrums to the point where you considered shooting her, until you ultimately decided that the burning pit of her manor was a suitable fate for her.

You didn’t give the woman a second glance when you turned your back and made your way towards Y/H/N, ignoring the screaming pain in your side as you pulled yourself onto them. Seeing the gang finally adjusted on their beasts, Dutch nodded to the rest of gang. “Let’s go!” He shouted, snapping and yanking on The Count’s reins. The ghostly white horse took off into the night, most of the gang following after him before you inserted yourself in the formation. You were behind Javier but in front of Lenny, and then John and Bill behind Lenny. Lenny was a good kid. You thought he could be a little overbearing at times, but generally he had a good heart and was always there to provide a laugh in camp. He seemed to care about everyone.

You were riding for around ten minutes before you began to feel dizzy, Y/H/N’s movements rocking you back and forth in both a nauseating and soothing fashion. Your side was still burning, at another level than it was before. Every movement, every gentle roll of your hips with Y/H/N’s trots sent ripples of endless scorching pain. It felt like someone had taken Pearson's stew ladle after a hot serving and dug it into your side. It was beginning to become hard to keep your eyes open, but for a while you managed. You would close them and screw them tightly shut then listen to Hosea and Javier’s conversation ahead of you for a few moments, then re-open them. The process seemed to be working, though it didn’t do well for your overwhelming sense of fatigue. You could feel your side slipping toward the right when you closed your eyes next, tightening your hands around the leather, weathered black reins in your hand.

Your eyes lulled closed as your weight dropped. You wouldn’t say you fell off of Y/H/N but your descent certainly wasn’t graceful. That much was evident by the loud thud your body made when it hit the dirt and the excruciating pain that rang through your side when you did. When you tried to let out a scream in a fruitless attempt to dull the pain, it only came out as a whimper. Your horse waited and stood a couple feet away from your landing sight, the horses shining coat and mane reflecting the moonlight. The sound of neighing and horse gallops, along with the dragging of forcibly stopped hooves caused you to force your eyes open. The moonlight burned your eyes and you hissed in discomfort before squinting them, you could make out the looming shadowy figures of people surrounding you, along with two kneeled down on either side of you.

“ _Mierda_ , she looks terrible,”

You could feel cool fingers poking at and running over the wet, sticky fabric of your dress shirt, tightening your brows into a neat line of both extreme discomfort and confusion. You had never really been one for touching, affectionate or otherwise, unless you had initiated it. People called you strange for it, constantly asking you if something had happened to make you that way but you had always explained to them as calmly as you could muster that it was just how you were. Gooseflesh ran up your unharmed skin when your shirt was lifted, and there was chorus of hisses through the group. The touch continued, applying the slightest pressure when they found the puncture wound before they yanked their hand away after you let out a groan of pain. And even though you couldn’t see it, an influx of blood. You certainly felt it.

“She’ll live, but we have to get ‘er to Pearson n’ Grimshaw before infection settles,” You could faintly make out Hosea’s voice, and thus came to the hazy conclusion that he was the one inspecting your wounds. He was probably one of the only people around who was qualified to do so aside from maybe Bill.

A shaky breath left your throat when you felt yourself being lifted, followed by a cough from your extremely dry throat. You were put on a horse before someone pulled themselves up behind you, moving so that their arms were looped under yours and around your waist to secure you so that you didn’t take another tumble. You tried not to slouch your weight too much into them, your hands gripping the course hair of the horses mane to steady your weight. Sleep suddenly looked very appealing, and your head gently slouched over as you went to accept it.

“Why didn’t you say you was shot?” You heard the voice of John ask you, and your eyes slowly fluttered back open. He sounded genuinely concerned, and even a little hurt and angry. John-fucking-Marston.

“Ain’t wanna cause no. . .fuss,” You weakly answered the man, taking short, heavy breaths as you did so. John moved his arms down the reins so that they were closer to you, so much that his jacket sleeve brushed against the bloody fabric of your shirt, he likely sensed your drowsiness. You couldn’t help but relax a little into the proximity, your back slouching back slightly so that your head softly rested on his chest.

You heard John sigh behind you, and a pat on your knee. “Just. . .try and stay awake for me, Y/N? Please,” He was likely only concerned about Abigail's reaction to seeing you like this, she would react badly either way but you assumed she would have a worse reaction if you were unconscious, so you dully nodded your head against his chest. It was hard, to say the least. Your side still ached and the only escape you seemed to get was slipping in and out of consciousness, but you also tried to focus on the feeling of John's hand on your knee. So, you settled for that, allowing yourself momentary lapses of quiet oblivion, but managing to pull yourself back to the real world with every particular jerk of Old Boy’s quick trots. Eventually, your exhaustion got to the point where you went slack against John, and barely had enough time to feel him tighten an arm around you before you slipped back into unconscious

* * *

You woke to arguing. The unpleasant, groany voice of Miss Grimshaw arguing with what sounded like John. You kept your eyes closed, but screwed them shut in an attempt to dull the sound of the fighting. It wasn’t loud, more like rushed, angry whispering, but it scratched against your ears. When you finally realized they weren't shutting up anytime soon, you rolled your E/C eyes under the lids. “Would the two of yous. . .shut the hell. . .hell up?” You croaked, your voice was quiet and it cracked every few words, along with your throat burning and feeling terribly dry with every syllable.

You let your eyes slowly peel open, seething at the suddenly invasive light and slowly flinching back before someone stood in front of the open tent, casting a shadow to protect you from the light. “You’re awake,” John stated, looking down at you with both pity and anger.

“Don’t gimme that look, Marston,” You deadpanned with your head tilted slightly to the left. The man crossed his arms and shook his head, going to speak before Miss Grimshaw interrupted him.

“We can deal with all that later. Miss Y/N, do you feel alright? Ain’t no headache nor uneasiness?”

You gave her a sarcastic look, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at the woman. Susan was brash and course, but only because she cared about the people in camp. If Dutch wasn’t already boss, you felt that Susan would ultimately be the power in the gang. She was like a mother to everyone, and she seemed fine with it. “Feelin’ fine. Ain’t like I been shot or nothin’.” You answered her with a small smile. Truth be told your side hurt like hell still. Nothing like when you were initially dealing with the injury, but it was still there.

“You scared ~~m~~ -us, Y/N,” John chimed in, and your eyes shifted quickly over to him.

“Ain’t going soft are ya, Marston?”

He rolled his eyes with a small smile at your words, his arms falling back to his sides as he turned toward the tent entrance. You assumed you were by Strauss’s medicine wagon from the stench of health cures and bitters. “I best go tell Abigail you’re awake,” He explained before leaving. There was a couple moments of silence between you and Miss Grimshaw, the older woman moving to rest a long nailed hand on the crown of your head.

The silence didn’t last long, however, as Abigail was soon flying through the tent. She stopped when she saw you, tears welling in her eyes. You gave her a smile as big as you could muster, shaking your head. “S’nothin’, really, Abs. Just so-” You went to explain, trying to soothe the worry and emotional distress likely running through her head like a river before she launched on you. Abigail dug her arms under your neck and buried her face in the crook of it. The action sent a small ache through your side again, but when you felt her tears hit your skin you bit back mentioning it and meekly wrapped your arms around her as well.

“I was so scared, that I was gon’ lose you. . .” She trailed off with several sniffs, nustling even closer to you if that was possible and you began to stroke her back and the back of her head soothingly. “Pearson said you was gon’ be fine but. . .God, Y/N, I couldn’t lose you.” She continued to ramble. You watched Miss Grimshaw leave from the corner of your welling eyes, giving her a small thankful smile for watching over you. You also reminded yourself to ask her about her and Johns earlier argument.

“You ain’t ever gonna lose me, Abigail. I promise, I’ll always be here,” You assured the brunette who sat beside you. You doubted her current position was comfortable, so you carefully grabbed her shoulders and moved her to a better sitting position. She couldn’t hug you like that anymore, but she held your cool hand instead.

“You was unconscious for a day, Grimshaw and Pearson say to give ya another two to rest up before ya think about getting up so. . .” Abigail explained, grabbing a damp cloth from on the small nightstand near the two of you before wiping her tears away from your neck. “Sorry. . .” She muttered as she did so.

“No, I’m sorry, Abs. We. . .we couldn’t. . .we couldn’t find Jack. . .” You trailed off on your explanation, throat closing up once more when you thought of the little boy you were supposed to save. Abigail gave you a sad smile and squeezed your hand, shaking her head.

“John already explained all that to me, and they’re going to meet with that Bronte feller tomorrow to figure things out. It’s not your fault, Y/N. You did what you could, just like you always do.” Abigail promised, shaking her head once more as though the mere thought of you not being enough or being at fault disgusted her. A part of you was upset, you wanted to be there when they confronted Bronte. Though you were injured and had quite the temper when it came to the Marstons, so you could understand why you weren’t going to be able to go with them. You assumed Dutch would likely end up sticking with John and Arthur, keeping the circle small so as not to spook Bronte.  
You simply nodded, your eyes drifting closed before opening again.

Abigail gave you the same look John did mere minutes ago, though she was smiling when she did it. “I’ll let you rest, Y/N. Thank you, again. For everythin’.” Abigail murmured between the two of you when your eyes drifted shut again, and right before you fell back asleep, you felt her press a gentle kiss to your forehead. You felt your heart swell, and you let yourself smile slightly before drifting off.


End file.
